Charles’ POV
It was already so late before we got ho.
I rember Mom greeting us at the door, her face lit with that soft worry she always wears when I stay out too long. I muttered sothing about work, smiled just enough to make her stop asking questions, and went straight to my room.
The rest of the night was a blur — a haze of hot water, dim light, and thoughts I didn’t want to unpack.
When I woke up the next morning, I felt like I’d been hit by a bus. My whole body ached — maybe from all the lifting yesterday, or maybe from pretending I wasn’t bothered when I clearly was.
My phone buzzed.
Anna.
I hesitated for a second before answering.
She didn’t even say hi, just jumped straight into her usual, "So? Spill. How was it?"
I sighed, rolling onto my back. "You an how I was?"
"Obviously. Don’t tell you behaved yourself."
I laughed a little, staring at the ceiling. "I did what I said I would."
"Oh no. What did you do?"
I told her everything — the glances, the teasing, the drive, even what I said in the car. Every detail, like I was reliving it through her reactions. Maybe because I could. Maybe because it made it all feel less serious.
She gasped at all the right monts, scolded where she should have, and laughed where I wanted her to. But when I ntioned how quiet Alistair got at the end, she didn’t laugh that ti.
"Charles," she said softly, "you’re playing with fire."
I closed my eyes, smiling faintly. "Maybe."
But I didn’t tell her that part of liked the burn.
I went quiet.
All that laughter from before faded, leaving just... silence.
I was doing all this because of revenge — or at least, that’s what I told myself. Maybe it was just the leftover feelings for Louis, the ones I refused to let die no matter how hard I tried.
The room felt colder that morning. I sat down on the ash-colored chair by the window, the one that never quite fit the rest of the room. Everything else was black, white, or red — clean lines, sharp edges, no warmth.
But this chair... I kept it.
I refused to let it go, because of the mories attached to it.
The last ti Louis was here, he’d sat there — reading sothing, pretending not to notice watching him. The sunlight had caught his hair then, turned it gold for just a second. I rember thinking he looked untouchable.
And now, that chair was all that was left of that day.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, running a hand through my hair.
Revenge. That’s what I said I wanted. But sitting here, staring at that stupid chair, it didn’t feel like justice. It felt like I was chasing a ghost — one that looked like Louis and laughed like Alistair.
My favorite mory of us was ever so vivid — it was lucid, almost too clear to be just a mory.
I was sixteen then.
He’d already started working with Dad, though "working with" wasn’t the right word anymore. He was handling things on his own, independent, serious in that way that made everyone trust him imdiately.
I used to watch him leave in the mornings — crisp shirt, calm expression, always a faint trace of coffee and cologne lingering in the air. He never noticed standing by the window, pretending to read or do howork. Maybe he did notice... maybe he just didn’t say anything.
There was sothing about those mornings — the sound of his car engine fading down the street, the sunlight cutting across the curtains — that made feel both proud and strangely left behind.
He was growing into soone the world needed, and I... was just watching.
But I loved watching nonetheless. It was endearing — the way he’d furrow his brows, lost in thought, or the way his voice softened when he explained sothing to .
Sotis, in the evenings, we’d spend ti together in my room. He’d sit on the edge of my bed or by the window, papers scattered around, half-focused on and half on his work. I’d pretend to be studying too, though most of the ti I was just watching him — the way his pen moved, the faint crease between his brows, the way he always muttered numbers or nas under his breath.
He’d help with howork, correcting my mistakes with a quiet patience that made want to do better. And while he talked about figures and contracts I didn’t understand, I’d nod, smiling, just happy to have him there.
I never told him that those monts ant everything to — that they made the house feel a little less cold, that his presence filled the quiet in a way nothing else could.
"You’re oddly good when it cos to history," he comnted softly, his tone gentle as he sat back in the chair.
"Co here," he said, reaching out to pull closer. I rember sitting on his lap
playfully, laughing like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You know I love you," he said — but there was sothing in his eyes, sothing heavy and sorrowful that didn’t match his words.
"I know," I whispered, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "And I love you too. No matter what."
He smiled then, that kind of smile that looked like sunlight breaking through rain clouds — fleeting but real. His arms wrapped around , gentle but tight, as if he was afraid I’d slip away. I could still rember how warm he felt, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my back.
"I don’t ever want to lose this," he whispered, his voice trembling just a little.
I laughed, brushing it off at the ti. "You won’t. You’re stuck with , rember?"
If only I knew how wrong I was.
Back then, those words ant everything — promises we thought would never break. But ti has a way of making liars out of all of us.
He started to grow distant not long after he got his first tattoo.
"OM," he called it — said it symbolized destruction and rebirth.
At first, I thought it was just sothing aesthetic, maybe a passing phase. But the way he spoke about it... the way his eyes lingered on it, like it carried the weight of sothing he couldn’t say — that’s when I knew it ant more.
He said it was about letting go of the old, the broken, and embracing sothing new. But all I saw was him slipping further away.
Sotis I’d trace the lines of it with my fingers, the black ink warm against his skin, and I’d wonder what part of him needed to be destroyed to be reborn — and if that part included .
I rember passing my exams with flying colors and asking him, half curious, half proud, "What makes you happy when you pass exams?"
He didn’t even pause before answering.
"Seeing others fail while being at the top," he said with that soft, innocent smile — the kind that made it sound almost pure, even though the words weren’t.
It should’ve worried , but it didn’t.
I loved him — all of him. His possessive streak, his rare tenderness, his quiet storms. I loved every fractured piece, even the ones that scared .
"Does Mom know about the tattoo?" I asked after a mont.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "She doesn’t... and she’ll never know."
Then, almost under his breath, he added —
"Not this horrible part of ."
I wanted to tell him there was nothing horrible about him, that I didn’t see what he saw — but I stayed quiet. Because sohow, I already knew he wouldn’t believe .
Louis was perfect — or at least, that’s how everyone saw him.
But I’d seen the cracks, the quiet flaws beneath the surface.
I loved him despite them — maybe because of them.
And still, he left.
He rejected , rejected us, rejected the bond we built, and chose sothing else instead.
He never told Mom about the tattoo he got — low on his back, almost at his waist.
I rember how furious he was when the artist placed it there, muttering that it was "where won usually have theirs."
He only wanted it hidden, nothing more.
I laughed when I rembered it — that mix of indignation and pride on his face — but the laughter didn’t reach my chest.
It hurt, all the sa.
I finally stopped reminiscing when Mom knocked on my door, her voice sharp with impatience.
She needed to look at her laptop — sothing about it not working again.
But the mont she stepped inside, her expression changed.
"You haven’t even bathed yet?" she snapped, hands on her hips.
I blinked, realizing how much ti had passed. The room still slled faintly of sleep and dust, the curtains half-drawn.
I mumbled an apology, though I barely ant it. My mind was still sowhere else — sowhere years away.
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